


Scissure

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He can't help thinking of another journey where his role was merely to provide transport for Lewis, in which his companion was similarly uncommunicative. He'd thought the two of them had come a long way since that first meeting on Lewis's return from the BVI; apparently not.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scissure

**Author's Note:**

> With very much appreciation, as always, to Uniquepov and Lindenharp for BRing, encouragement and suggestions.

James is reviewing CPS files on Boxing Day around noon when his mobile rings. It’s not a number he recognises, so most of his attention’s still on his task when he answers. “Hathaway.”

“James! It’s Lyn Lewis.” He barely recognises the voice; she sounds distracted and fretting. Not a social call, then – but he wouldn’t have expected that anyway. Heart thumping, he’s about to ask what’s wrong, and specifically whether something’s happened to his boss when she speaks again, hurriedly. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but I need to ask a huge favour.”

“Go on,” he says with caution. At any other time, he’d give an unequivocal _anything_ , but that’s one thing he can’t promise at the moment. If Lewis has said anything...

“My dad’s had a bit of an accident. Nothing serious,” she adds immediately as James’s heart almost skids to a halt. “He was playing with Conor this morning and tripped over a toy. We’ve just got back from Casualty. Sprained ankle.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that.” Lewis will hate it. He’ll pretend it doesn’t matter for his daughter’s sake, but once back in Oxford he’ll be grumpy for days. 

“Thing is, he can’t drive. And I’m on duty this evening, so I can’t take him back to Oxford, and Tim’s supposed to be looking after Conor. There’s no way he could drive Dad down and then get a train back up to Manchester with Conor in–”

“Of course I’ll come,” James interrupts as his brain catches up with what she’s asking of him. He’s already opening thetrainline.com on his browser. Tucking the phone under his chin, he quickly searches. “Damn. No trains to Manchester today.” And he has to get up by public transport; Lewis has taken his official vehicle – with permission, of course – and that has to be brought back to Oxford. “I’ll check the coach sites and call you back, all right?” Lyn sounds worried when she replies, so he adds, “It’ll be fine. If I can’t get a coach, I can see if someone can drive up with me to bring my car back – or, at worst, I’ll come first thing in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, but I really hope you can come today, James.”

“Let me guess.” He can’t help smiling. “He’s being stubborn?”

“Oh, yes. Insists that he can still drive, and I know he can’t. He can barely put any weight on the ankle at all. It’s his left ankle, so if he had an automatic, maybe... though I still wouldn’t advise it.”

“You’re a nurse, so you know what you’re talking about – and he’s a copper, which means he should definitely know better.”

“Yeah, well, you try talking to him.” She sighs. “Tim and I are doing our best, but sooner or later I’m afraid he’ll just ignore us and leave.” 

Which is why she needs him to come today. “I’ll phone you back as soon as I’ve got something booked.”

* * *

Organising travel to Manchester on Boxing Day is far from the easiest thing he’s ever done. No trains. No coaches. He does actually find a flight, astonishingly enough: Virgin Atlantic, leaving at 16:45 from Heathrow, and the price is barely more than he’d pay for a one-way ticket on British Rail. Still leaves the problem of getting to Heathrow, and the no-trains, no-coaches issue still exists. Nonetheless, he pulls out his credit card and books the flight; if he waits until he’s sorted out transport to the airport, Sod’s Law will apply and the flight will be full.

Lewis will hate the fact that he’s doing this, of course, and even more so that he’s gone to this trouble and expense to get to Manchester. That’s why he hasn’t seriously entertained the idea of getting someone else to drive up with him – not to mention the possibility that Lewis is still likely to be pissed off with him, and it’s not fair to bring someone else into that particular mess. 

He has to talk to Innocent as well; he’s supposed to be working a full day, after all. She tuts when he explains about Lewis’s ankle and his consequent inability to drive. “We’ll just have to send you up there to fetch him tomorrow, then, I suppose,” she says with a sigh. 

Without going into too much detail, he explains that Lyn has asked him to come today, and asks for the time off. Eyes wide, she says, “How on earth are you getting to Manchester today? Nothing’s running.” So, of course, he has to tell her, and she shakes her head. “I have fourteen CID teams under my command. Why is it that you and Inspector Lewis are always the ones who give me grey hairs?” 

To his complete and utter shock, Innocent insists on driving him to Heathrow. “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s less than an hour’s drive. And I’d rather that than have you commandeer a uniform vehicle to take you there.” He winces inwardly; that had been his fallback plan.

“I just hope Inspector Lewis appreciates you,” Innocent says tartly as they leave the nick, the spare keys to Lewis’s car in his pocket. He wonders what she’d say if he told her the truth about how much Lewis appreciates him at the moment.

* * *

He phones Lyn from the car and tells her that he’s on his way. She takes the flight information and tells her that Tim will be there to pick him up – she’ll be on her way to work, but Tim can pretend that he’s running out for some shopping and leave Lewis taking care of the baby, she says. 

Once everything’s organised, James is about to end the call, but Lyn speaks again. “I have to ask you, James – is everything all right between you and Dad? Because he’s hardly mentioned you this time, and while that on its own is unusual, he almost bit my head off when I asked how you were. That’s not like him at all.”

 _Shit_. He had been hoping that this Christmas break would give Lewis time to calm down and accept the inevitable, but that clearly hasn’t happened. Though, if he’s being honest with himself, James knew it wouldn’t. Bugger.

* * *

Shortly after eight, James follows Lyn’s partner into their suburban Manchester semi. Immediately, he can hear a baby crying, and his governor’s voice trying – vainly, it appears – to soothe the child. “He’ll be hungry,” Tim murmurs. “If you’re sure you don’t want anything, James, I’ll let you and Robbie get off and then feed him.”

More loudly then, Tim calls, “Everything okay, Robbie?”

“Yeah, fine.” And that’s Lewis more or less lying through his teeth, James is aware from experience. “Think the little one’s hungry – and I need to make a move.”

“You know we’d gladly have had you for another day.” Tim leads the way into a bright, cheery room, adorned with a Christmas tree and other decorations. Lewis is seated in a comfortable armchair, left foot propped up on a footstool, and he’s cuddling a protesting eight-month-old. 

At any other time, James would be interested in studying baby Conor, looking for any resemblance to Lewis, and perhaps even making the child’s acquaintance; it’s the first time he’s seen Lewis’s grandson in the flesh, though he’s been shown plenty of photos. But today is not the time for that. 

“Evening, sir,” he says, feeling he ought to make his presence known. 

Lewis’s head turns sharply in his direction, while at the same time Tim’s taking the baby from him. “Hathaway! How – oh, let me guess. Lyn,” he finishes, sardonic. 

“It wasn’t just Lyn, to be fair, Robbie,” Tim says. “We both thought it was the best thing to do, since you insisted you couldn’t stay until one of us could drive you back.”

Lewis doesn’t answer, instead focusing on hauling himself to his feet, wobbling a bit as he does so. James is tempted to offer assistance, but his governor’s body language is making very clear that any attempt wouldn’t be well-received. Instead, he says, “I can take your luggage to the car, if you like, sir, while you make your farewells.”

“Up the stairs, first door on the right,” Tim says. “But are you sure you won’t stay for a coffee, at least? Something to eat?”

“We’ll get something on the way, if necessary,” Lewis says. ”It’s a good three-hour drive, and that’s without Boxing Day traffic.”

“Well.” Tim, baby on his hip, comes over to James, hand outstretched. “It’s good to meet you at last, James. I hope you’ll be able to stay longer another time.”

“Perhaps,” he says, non-committal; of course, the real answer, given the current state of his relationship with Lewis, is _improbable_. He gives Tim a friendly nod, then jogs upstairs to collect his boss’s things.

* * *

Lewis comes out of the house a few minutes later with a face like thunder. James is standing next to the passenger door of the car, with the intention of opening it for Lewis, but one glacier-like glare from his governor sends him retreating to the driver’s side.

It’s going to be a long and painful journey, that much is apparent. Though it’s not as if he expected any better. Even were Lewis in perfect charity with him, he’d still grumble about James coming up to fetch him, as if he were a child or a dog who couldn’t get himself home without help.

James’s initial conversational overtures – _Are you comfortable, sir? Are you warm enough?_ – are met with discouraging grunts. He falls silent, as that seems to be the preferable option for them both, and focuses on driving. He can’t help thinking of another journey where his role was merely to provide transport for Lewis, in which his companion was similarly uncommunicative. He’d thought the two of them had come a long way since that first meeting on Lewis’s return from the BVI; apparently not. Although, to be fair, James has provoked the current impasse.

Around the halfway mark, when the three-mile warning for Hilton Park Services comes into view, James glances at Lewis again. “Do you need to stop? Next services aren’t till Warwick, unless I take the M5 route.” Which, at this time of night, isn’t necessary, as traffic on the M6 is thinning out as it gets later, so the current road will be faster.

“I’m not a bloody geriatric who needs to pee every couple of hours,” Lewis snaps. “Just keep going. Sooner we get back, the better.”

He accedes, as formally as possible. “Sir.” 

They’re almost at the M42 when Lewis says, “Handed in that letter yet?”

His boss’s tone isn’t welcoming, but it’s a start. “No. I felt I should wait until you were back.”

“Don’t see what difference that makes. You already said your mind’s made up.”

There’s nothing he can say to that. An apology would not be well-received, and in any case all he’d be apologising for is that Lewis isn’t happy about the situation, and not that he regrets causing it.

He does say, after a while, “It’s not a spur of the moment decision. I’ve been considering it for quite some time.”

“Yeah, you have, haven’t you? You told me you didn’t want to wake up in twenty years’ time with nothing to show for your life than picking through other people’s misery.” Lewis’s tone is biting, and his expression’s stony. His boss has got a bloody long memory, hasn’t he? That was more than two years ago; he was lashing out, and he’s regretted saying that ever since.

If he thought it’d do any good, he’d stop at the Warwick services and demand that they talk this through, that Lewis actually _listen_ to him; but there’s no point. Lewis doesn’t even want to entertain a conversation with him at the moment, let alone hear his reasons.

James sighs and falls silent, concentrating on the road ahead.

* * *

It’s after eleven when he pulls up outside Lewis’s flat. “I’ll bring your luggage inside, sir,” he says, tone as formal as he knows how.

Lewis gets out of the car, almost stumbles, and mutters something that sounds like a curse. James would like to ask if his governor has, or needs, painkillers, but he’d get his head bitten off for it and, worse still, it would put Lewis’s back up to such an extent that the man would probably lie in his bed in excruciating pain than take anything for it.

He carries Lewis’s bags into the man’s bedroom, then turns to leave, pausing only to say, “Goodnight, sir. I’ll be around in the morning to pick you up.”

He’s gone before Lewis can reply.

* * *

In the morning, he arrives shortly after eight. Lewis lets him in, and James notes the bags under his boss’s eyes, the creases of pain on his face, and the lack of eye contact.

“You didn’t need to come. I could’ve requested a uniform car.” Lewis is limping around the kitchen, tidying up. 

James sighs. He’d hoped that Lewis might be in a better frame of mind this morning, at least willing to consider James’s point of view. “Even if I had a problem with it, sir, which I don’t, it’s part of my duties.”

“Flying to Manchester so you can drive me back from an _off-duty_ few days away bloody well isn’t.” Ah. Lewis has been talking to Tim or Lyn. His boss opens a drawer, rummages through it and then drops something onto the counter, again without even looking at him. “That should cover your ticket.”

James glances down. There’s what looks like a hundred and sixty quid in twenties there. It’s considerably more than the price of his ticket; he paid just under ninety pounds. Regardless, even if the amount was correct, he wouldn’t take it. Not under these circumstances. 

“No, thank you.” He backs away, adding, “I’ll wait in the car.”

Once Lewis joins him, about three minutes later, and they’re on their way, James says, “I think it would be best, once I give Chief Superintendent Innocent my letter of resignation, if I request a change of duties while I work out my notice.”

Lewis gives him a sharp look. “If that’s what you want.”

No. No, he’s had enough of this. “It’s not, _sir_ , but it’s very clear that it’s what you want.”

“That’s bollocks! Why would I want to lose you as me sergeant now when I don’t bloody want you resigning at all?”

“So once I hand in my notice, we’ll have another four weeks of this?” James looks around for somewhere – anywhere – he can pull off the road and park; if they’re going to have this second argument they’ve been building up to since the day Lewis left for Manchester, he’s not going to be driving while it happens.

“Turn the car around.” Lewis only uses that tone when it’s an order. James can’t help giving him a questioning look, all the same. “Now. Back to my flat. We’re going to have this out once and for all, an’ not at the nick.”

James does as he’s instructed. While it’s a relief to know that this standoff is finally going to come to an end, there’s a lead weight in his stomach that won’t go away. The next hour is going to determine whether he and Lewis will even be able to speak to each other again, or whether he’s completely destroyed the relationship between them, a relationship that’s more like friendship than governor and bagman, and the closest relationship that he’s ever had with another person in his life. 

Not to mention his hopes, which he acknowledges were never all that likely to materialise, of a deeper relationship still. Robbie Lewis isn’t gay; James is well aware of that. But he’s almost certain that his boss isn’t completely straight either, and he knows that Lewis isn’t averse to James on a social and to some extent physical level. They touch frequently. They stand and sit closer than colleagues, or indeed friends, normally would. He sometimes flirts, and Lewis always flirts back. And he’s caught his governor watching him occasionally, though Lewis always looks away immediately. Even with all that, Lewis is something of a traditional bloke, despite his open-mindedness; James could imagine that he’d be no more likely to consider a relationship with a man twenty-odd years his junior than he would with a married woman. And, of course, there’s been the on-again-off-again romance with Laura – which, admittedly, is off at present, and James suspects that the pathologist is currently seeing someone else.

However vain his hopes and dreams have been, at least he had them, and as long as he and Lewis have continued to work and spend time together he’s continued to dream. But, depending how this discussion goes, those dreams could also vanish, snuffed out like one of his old fag-ends.

And all because he decided he couldn’t do this job any more.

* * *

_He’d come in on the morning of the twenty-third of December after yet another sleepless night, and tried to focus on the arrest report for their latest case. The words wouldn’t come, however, and after a fruitless half an hour of staring at his computer screen he’d given up and gone out for a cigarette._

_It wasn’t working any more._ He _wasn’t working. Square peg in a round hole, that was what he’d always been, and still was. He’d got away with it for a few years, mainly thanks to an understanding boss and mentor, but he’d known in that moment that it was time to stop pretending. When all he could see when he went to bed were the faces of people he couldn’t save – Briony Keagan, Silas Whittaker, Claire Ganza, so many more – it was time to admit the truth. He couldn’t do this any longer._

_When he went back inside, Lewis frowned at him. “I’ve just had Innocent on the phone looking for that report. Come on, man – I know it’s nearly Christmas, but you can’t go slacking off.”_

_“Sir.” Instead of going to his desk, he stood in front of Lewis’s. “I need to tell you that I’m resigning from the police force.”_

_“What?” Lewis stared at him, expression incredulous. “Don’t be daft. Of course you’re not.”_

_“At least show me enough respect to believe I know what I’m saying, sir!” He was tired, of course, feeling wretched, and in no mood to argue._

_“Why?” Lewis stood and, instead of the understanding James was hoping for, his tone was accusatory._

_He couldn’t defend himself, not then. He was just too bloody exhausted to explain properly, and if he tried, he knew Lewis would only argue him down, talk him around. “Does there have to be a reason?”_

_“So you expect respect from me, yet you won’t show me respect by giving me an explanation?”_

_His gaze dropped to the floor. “You wouldn’t understand, sir.”_

_“Oh, so I’m stupid, am I, sergeant?”_

_Christ, how had this spiralled downwards so suddenly, so disastrously? “No, sir, of course not. I’m just trying to tell you that I have my reasons and I have thought this through.” He swallowed. “I’ve been thinking it through for weeks. The letter’s already written – I only need to print it.”_

_“I see.” Lewis’s face was shuttered abruptly. “Your mind’s made up, then. So there’s nothing to discuss.”_

_Before James could say another word, Lewis got up and left the room._

* * *

Lewis had been gone for the rest of the morning, and only came back to collect his things before leaving for Manchester. Even if James had known what to say to him, he didn’t have an opportunity. Without even wishing him compliments of the season, Lewis had dumped a pile of folders on his desk and left with no more than a “Back on the 27th.”

And now it is the 27th. At the moment, it feels like Doomsday. 

Lewis is on the phone to Innocent as James parks the car, informing her that something’s come up and they won’t be in for another hour or so. He forestalls what are obviously questions by telling her that he needs to go, and immediately ends the call.

Inside the flat, Lewis limps into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. The cash, James notes, is still lying on the counter. Normally, at this point, James would be getting mugs down and going to the fridge for the milk, but is he welcome to do that today? On the other hand, he tells himself firmly as he reaches for the mugs, if he doesn’t follow his usual pattern then he’s doing exactly what he just accused Lewis of.

“There’s some shortbread in that.” Lewis nods towards a Tupperware container on the counter. “Lyn made it.”

James takes the plastic container to the table. It’s progress, at least. Perhaps this isn’t going to be a shouting match after all.

Lewis brings the mugs to the table, sliding one across. He sits, then sighs. “Talk to me, James.”

He wraps his hands around his mug. “I didn’t intend to spring it on you, sir. I’ve been debating handing in my papers for some time, but I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to... and then that morning, for some reason, everything came to a head and I knew I just had to do it.”

Lewis is watching him, and his expression now is regretful – and sympathetic. “Why didn’t you talk to me, if you’ve been feeling like this for a while?”

He lowers his head, then decides that he owes Lewis the courtesy of looking him in the eye. “I wasn’t sure if the way I was feeling was anything more than... well, a temporary bout of uncertainty. It’s not the first time I’ve suffered from periods of... of existential doubt, I suppose, particularly about the direction I’m taking with my life. I didn’t want to trouble you if this was going to turn out to be nothing.”

Lewis’s mouth creases downwards. “Wouldn’t have been a bother. I’m your governor. It’s what I’m supposed to be here for.” Before James has a chance to say anything in reply, Lewis adds, “An’ if you didn’t want to talk to me as your governor, I’d’ve hoped you could talk to me as a friend.”

In retrospect, he should have. But it had all seemed so nebulous, so stupid, really, he hadn’t known what to say. Lewis would have listened, been sympathetic, but would have told him – as he’s done before – that all he needs is a good night’s sleep and a new case to get his teeth into, and he’ll be fine. 

“Go on, say it.” Lewis’s tone is resigned. “Why would you believe you could talk to me after the way I reacted when you told me you’re leaving?”

“No! No, it’s not...” James shakes his head. “I wasn’t thinking that at all. I should have talked to you, but I kept thinking things would get better.”

“S’pose I did too.” James’s eyes widen. “Yeah, I knew something was up, course I did. Thought you’d tell me sooner or later, if it was important. And then you did, but...”

“Not what you wanted to hear, sir?”

“Well, no, but that’s not what I meant. You wouldn’t discuss it. You’d made your decision an’ that was that.”

Raking through his hair with both hands, James says, “I didn’t want to be talked out of it. And I know you – you’d want to fix this, fix _me_ , and I’m not sure it can be.”

Lewis is silent, watching him, for a long moment. Then he says, “You know me better than that, man. Yeah, course I don’t want to lose you, but don’t you think there’s something that’s more important to me than that?”

“Expanding your knowledge of obscure Greek mythology under my tutelage?” James suggests, resorting to facetiousness. It’s hardly the best choice in this situation, but it’s all he’s got.

“Daft sod.” Lewis’s expression shows he appreciates the humour, at least. “I want you to be happy, James. And if the job is what’s been making you miserable for the last couple of months, why would I try to persuade you to stay?” He looks directly at James again. “All I wanted was for you to talk to me and tell me why.”

“And that’s why you were angry? Not because I want to resign?” Lewis’s face gives him the answer. James lowers his head slowly to the table and hits it against the surface a couple of times. “I’m sorry, sir. I... my only excuse is that I hadn’t slept – again – and all of a sudden I knew I couldn’t carry on.” He straightens. “I wasn’t even going to tell you immediately, but... it just came out.”

“Yeah.” Lewis nods. “Looking back, I can see that.” He shifts his chair so that they’re sitting closer, and lays a hand on James’s upper arm. “This got anything to do with Silas? You feeling you’d let him down?”

James’s lip twists. “He’s part of it, yeah. Others, too. People who shouldn’t have died. People I feel I let down – like Briony. I used her, remember? And she got killed for it.”

Lewis doesn’t tell him not to blame himself, which James appreciates – though that’s a conversation they’ve had before, anyway. Instead, he says, “There’s not a copper in the world who can say he – or she – has no regrets. But you can also point to plenty of times when you’ve made things better. And to people who wouldn’t be alive today if not for you.”

“I know.” James wraps his arms around himself. “I’ve told myself that, too. It isn’t enough. I can’t be a detective any more.”

Lewis’s hand slides across to his back and rests there. It’s comforting – and thrilling, and James fights the urge to lean into Lewis. “All right. Then I’ve just got two questions for you.”

“Which are?”

“First: does needing to get away from the job mean you want to get away from me too?”

He looks sideways at Lewis, still seeing only concern – and a touch of humour. “No. It’s not – it was never you, sir. You’re the only reason I’ve stayed this long. Though I assumed once I left the force we would be unlikely to see much of each other.” And that’s been the hardest part of the decision to resign: the prospect of losing Lewis from his life, losing even the faint possibility of the relationship he really wants with this man.

“Especially after the way I reacted?” James nods. “That what you want?” Lewis continues.

“Of course not.” He guards his tone carefully, keeping it level and unemotional. Anything else would give away how desperately he wants _not_ to lose this relationship, this almost-friendship, with Lewis.

“Good.” Lewis pats his back, then shifts away again; James practically wants to beg him to come back. “All right, so second question. Do you have to leave the force, or would a different job, not on the front line, suit you? What if I asked Innocent if we could transfer to... I dunno, training, or community liaison or something like that? It’d only be for a couple of years initially, till I’m up for retirement, an’ then you could decide if that’s what you want to keep doing, or look for something else. Lots of opportunities in the police beyond what we do now, you know, especially for a clever bloke like you. An’ you’d never have to visit a murder scene again.”

“Or get callouts at three in the morning,” James says with a huff of laughter. “That’s not a bad idea, sir. But are you sure _you_ want to...?”

“Why would I want to train up someone else at this stage, eh? Nah. I’m getting sick of the three in the morning callouts as well.” Robbie pushes himself to his feet. “Another coffee?”

“I’ll get it. You should rest your ankle.”

Robbie follows him to the kitchen, all the same. “You know, that’s your fault an’ all.”

“Eh?” James stares at him.

“Wasn’t paying attention, was I? I was thinking about you and getting pissed off again that you wouldn’t even talk to me, an’ I trod on Thomas the bloody Tank Engine.”

James’s lips twitch. “I am very sorry indeed, sir.” And then he can’t restrain himself any longer; he bursts out laughing.

* * *

By the time they’re finally heading to work, James has ninety quid in his pocket – Lewis insisted that he take it – and they’ve got a plan worked out for approaching Innocent. Training, James thinks, rather than community policing. It’s a better use of Lewis’s abilities, and James would prefer it. 

And James has the knowledge that he’s not the only one who doesn’t want to lose this close working relationship, even quasi-friendship, that they have. That Lewis is willing to give up the work that he loves for James’s sake speaks volumes – and sets his heart beating faster. It still doesn’t mean that there’s any possibility that Lewis could ever want what James wants, but it does say that his boss doesn’t want to lose their daily interaction. 

To say Innocent’s surprised is very definitely an understatement, but by the end of their meeting she’s looking up possible vacancies that might suit. “You don’t necessarily need to be in the same division, I take it?”

“Erm... well, we’d really prefer it if we could be, ma’am,” Lewis says firmly, to James’s surprise and relief. “Even if it means we have to wait a bit longer for the right positions.” And, of course, even waiting won’t be a problem, from James’s perspective. Lewis won’t be fit for field duty for at least a month, given his ankle, and in these circumstances Innocent won’t give James a temporary reassignment to another inspector – not when she’s aware that he wants out of front-line policing.

Innocent frowns, looking from one to the other, then shakes her head. “Leave it with me.”

“We’re a good team,” Lewis says as they walk to their office, James slowing his pace to compensate for his boss’s limp. “You know I’d rather work with you, even if it’s not gonna be exactly the same arrangement as we have now.” 

“We could push for team teaching, sir. All the best colleges do it these days, and it’s shown to produce excellent results, as well as making learning more engaging for students. Besides, you never really did manage to master the art of writing on the board simultaneously with speaking, did you?”

“Git. So I should have you in me classroom just to do the writing for me?”

“Or we could do it the other way around...”

* * *

Four months later, they’ve been working at the Police Training Centre, White House, Sulhamstead, for the past six weeks. The transfer went more smoothly than Innocent had suggested it might, because as soon as the director of the training centre heard that Lewis was interested in a training post he immediately contacted Innocent, based on Lewis’s reputation as a DI and his performance on attachment in the BVI. 

Lewis, however, had said he’d only take the position if there was a job for James as well, preferably working alongside him. That had taken a bit more time to arrange, but they’re now working together as part of a team of five trainers. James likes the work, and is learning a lot from his colleagues – especially Lewis, but that’s no surprise. Lewis the classroom trainer is every bit as effective, and as unassuming, as Lewis the DI. This isn’t what he’ll want to do long-term, though he’s very grateful to Lewis for opening his eyes about other roles within the police. In four or five years, he think he’ll look for an opportunity to move into policy or research.

In the meantime, they’re both liking the change, and they get on well with the other trainers. James has no regrets, and he’s pretty sure that Lewis – Robbie, as his superior officer (no longer his governor) has insisted James call him outside the formal environment of the training centre – doesn’t either. The only thing neither of them is fond of is the daily commute: an hour each way, give or take, depending on traffic; the centre’s just outside Reading. They car-share, one of them picking up the other on the way every morning, and usually eat together either on the way home or when they get back, unless one of them has another commitment. They spend at least as much time together outside work now as they’ve always done; sometimes discussing current or future training sessions, or planning improvements to their technique, but just as often chatting, watching TV or winding each other up, as they’ve always done. 

One thing they definitely like about this new life is the guaranteed weekends and bank holidays off, and they’re both looking forward to the early May bank holiday as they inch their way home through the busier than usual Friday evening traffic. “You’ll stay for dinner at mine, yeah?” Robbie says as they finally reach the outskirts of Oxford.

“Mmm. Should I cook, or do you want takeaway?” James has his phone out ready to make the call if it’s the latter.

“Takeaway. You can cook tomorrow – unless you’re doing something?” Robbie glances at him before manoeuvring around a roundabout.

“You know the state of my social life,” James comments dryly. “Cooking for you will be the highlight of my long weekend.”

“Ah, that’s bollocks,” Robbie declares. “Since you keep insisting you’ve got no interest in going out and meeting people, then I’m gonna do something about it. I refuse to let you spend this weekend hanging out at mine or down the pub.” James’s heart sinks. They hadn’t discussed any plans for this weekend, but he’d assumed they’d at least meet up for a drink a couple of times, as they usually do – and hasn’t Robbie just invited him to cook for them tomorrow?

Of course, Robbie could have his own plans, though even with the extra time on his hands these days James hasn’t noticed the older man developing any more of a social life than he himself has. They still spend more time with each other than with anyone else, other than weekends when Robbie travels up to Manchester. And even then, James came with him for the Easter long weekend, at Lyn’s express invitation.

“Robbie...” he starts to protest, but Lewis cuts across him.

“Weather’s supposed to be good, so I reckon the two of us should get out an’ do some walking. We don’t get enough of that any more. There’s some pretty decent hiking routes not far from here, and don’t worry – they all include good pubs. I downloaded a couple of walkers’ maps – was thinking we could head out to Charlbury on Sunday and Eyensham on Monday, maybe even get a B&B for the night in between.”

That’s absolutely not what he was expecting, but it sounds perfect. “I’d like that very much. Getting a B&B might be difficult at this short notice, but I’ll take a look online if you like.”

Over dinner, Robbie pauses and looks at James. “I’ve been doing some thinking lately.” His expression’s serious, and James can’t help the flutter of panic inside his chest. “I like the job – a lot more than I thought I would. Just not too keen on the drive every day.”

Unsure of what’s coming, James just nods. Robbie continues, “Was debating looking for a flat, maybe even a house, somewhere like Didcot. It’s still in Oxfordshire – I really don’t fancy moving to bloody poncy Berkshire – and it’d cut the journey in half, maybe less. An’ it’s close enough to the A34 that it wouldn’t make the drive to Manchester that much longer. What d’you think?”

James’s heart is sinking to his boots. Yes, he’d still be working with Lewis every day, but they wouldn’t be travelling together, and spending time outside work would require planning – which runs the risk of revealing just how much he _wants_ to spend time with Robbie.

“I can see that it makes sense for you,” he says carefully after a pause.

“Not for you, then?” Robbie’s face falls, and James’s eyes widen.

“You meant both of us? I’ll have to see what’s available in my price-range, but yes.” Much as he likes Oxford, he wants to stay close to Robbie more – and besides, it’s not as if he’s out on the town every weekend. Far from it.

Robbie’s tone as he continues appears casual, but James has observed Robbie Lewis the detective closely enough over the years that he’s well aware that this is something his friend has thought long and hard about. Whatever Robbie’s about to say, it’s something that’s very important to him. “Actually, was thinking we could maybe get somewhere together. Makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, we get on well, and what’s the point in having two separate places when we can share one?”

Move in with Robbie? James’s heart leaps. Living together – even if it’s not how he’s dreamed of living with Robbie – is more than he’s ever dared hope for, isn’t it? 

Except that if he’s around Robbie all the time, the risk of giving himself away increases exponentially. On the other hand, Robbie’s known him all this time and never suspected. Again keeping his tone even, to avoid giving away just how much he wants to do this, he says, “I’d like that. But you’re looking at retiring in two or three years. What then?”

Robbie shrugs, standing to clear away their plates. “Depending what you decide to do then, I’d move back to Oxford, or stay in Didcot.” He comes back with another two bottles of Bridge and hands one to James, leading the way to the couch.

“You make it sound as if we’re...” James hesitates. Robbie’s sitting very close to him, which is, he realises, normal for them, yet this evening it feels different, and he can’t identify why.

Robbie raises both eyebrows. “A couple?” He gives James one of his _Bit slow, aren’t you, sergeant?_ looks. “Aren’t we?”

His heart almost stops. “You know...?”

Robbie’s smile is fond – more than fond, though James barely dares to name what he thinks he sees. “Known for at least two years, man. You gave yourself away when you stayed up all night working on the Chloe Brooks case.” Robbie shakes his head, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes. “Surprised me at first, an’ I wasn’t sure how I felt about it – but then the more I thought about it the more I realised I was interested too. But you were me sergeant. Couldn’t do anything about it back then.” He reaches out and covers James’s free hand with his own. “Not your boss any more, though.”

“I never thought you–” James shakes his head, then continues. “No. I _did_ think you looked at me sometimes as if I wasn’t the only one who wanted more. But you never did more than look. At my most pessimistic, I told myself I was imagining it.”

“Like I said, I was your governor. Conflict of interest, not to mention I could’ve wrecked your career if I’d done anything.” Robbie’s fingers fold around his. “Told meself one of these days you’d go for promotion and then maybe... Or once I’d retired. An’ then I’d tell meself I was far too old for you and it was just as well we couldn’t start anything.”

James turns his hand over and grips Robbie’s. “I’ve been told I’m middle-aged. I’d say that makes you the perfect age for me.”

“Laura kept telling me that if the difference in our ages was the only thing holding me back, then I was a blithering idiot.” James stares at him, shocked. “Yeah, Laura knew,” Robbie adds.

“Just as well I’m not a detective any more. It looks like I’m a pretty crap one.” James smiles ruefully.

“You are.” Robbie grins. “You never worked out that’s why I was so pissed off about you not talking to me about wanting to resign.”

James looks back at Lewis, chagrined. He really has been useless, hasn’t he? Although... Maybe he’s not so blind after all, since he can clearly see what’s in Robbie’s expression now, and where his friend’s eyes are focused... 

“Enough talking,” he growls, and in one smooth movement he frees his hand and cups Robbie’s face in both palms before leaning in for a kiss.

Robbie gives as good as he gets, kissing him back with fierce enthusiasm. “Hope you’re not planning on going anywhere tonight, bonny lad.”

James nips at Robbie’s jaw, simultaneously pulling his tie off and letting it fall to the floor. “Only as far as your bedroom.”

“Good.” And there’s no more talking, or taking the piss, for a very long time.


End file.
